Today I was thinking about a man I met in Rome in
1974. He was chivalrous, troubled from the Vietnam war, and wealthy. I haven’t
seen him since then, but today I saw him clearly, and then in my mind’s eye, I
saw his life slip away.
I think we all know when we’re going to die. Some
people don’t want to think about it, and others, like me, ponder and embrace
the reality of it.
As my nurse mother stood by my 76-year-old father’s
hospital bed, he asked her, why is everything shutting down? He probably never
thought he’d be cognizant of the physical process of slipping away.
My mom spoke openly of death, and in that context, she
often lamented losing her high school classmates. Class of ’42 is dwindling
fast, she’d say. But she was an optimist, so then she’d say, just one more year,
that’s all. Many times, she said she needed one more year to welcome a first
great grandchild. Another time it was a trip she wanted to take, and other
years it was just an age number. She made it to 87, and the last year of her
life I didn’t hear a word about wanting more time.
As a shy child, I used to reward myself when I did a
brave thing. I’d ride my bike two exploratory blocks further than usual, then
sneak an extra cookie. If I raised my hand in class and spoke out loud, then at
recess, I’d run as fast as I could around the perimeter of the playground. Oh,
did I love to run.
I thought being a child meant being the bravest. So many new things, so many obstacles, so many people bossing me. Now I know, the oldest people have to be the bravest. They are the keepers of faith, the calm, the knowledgeable, and the wonderful.
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